


Heroes & Gods

by bactaqueen



Category: AFI
Genre: Commentary, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2287028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are the new heroes and gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heroes & Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental.
> 
> Author's Note: Originally posted March 2005.

Old archetypes die hard. Nostalgia will keep the specters of traditional heroes and gods alive, but ghosts cannot satisfy our needs. Fantasy must be rooted in flesh. A sense of connection is all-important. Beast-slaying warriors and selfish, petty gods have no place at the forefront of modern cultural memory. The old models have been replaced.  
  
One is our guitar hero, and the other is our rock god. Their complementary beauty inspires the generations of fans taught that image, like the eyes, is a window to the soul. The music they make has the power to physically move us. Caught in the throes of real emotion, we are helpless. What can we do but imagine them?  
  
So choose a setting. Perhaps it is an outdoor music festival. Maybe it is the end of a long summer day. The orange sun hovers just above the horizon. Angled rays bathe the trampled field in red-gold. Half-nude and sunburned bodies sway before the massive main stage like kelp in a sea bed. The final strains of the last song are dying in the stifling air, and the walls of speakers are reverberating, finally given a break from drummed bass lines and screeching riffs. They have finished their show. As the showman plays up his role as punk rock royalty, magnanimously thanking the enthusiastic crowd, his band mates beat a hasty retreat. It is easy to imagine the drummer and the bassist fleeing to the air-conditioned sanctuary of the trailer, where they fight over who gets the shower first. It is easier still to imagine the guitar hero lingering just off stage, waiting.  
  
On stage, their chemistry is undeniable. It is in every veiled look, every subtle caress, every secret meaning behind every coded word. The connection they share is an invisible but evident live wire. They may be two halves of the same whole. They may be soul mates. What they share with their adoring public is barely sufficient. We crave more. Our own hopes fringe on the potential of their reality. And perhaps by not dispelling the abundant rumors they are really saving us from the truth.  
  
Forget truth. For the purposes of this fantasy, it is only the barest truth that is consequential. The truth of their beauty. The truth of their appeal. The truth of our imagination.  
  
Imagine the trailer. Small and white, one among many in a field of row upon row of identical trailers. Imagine sunlight painting the siding orange and pink. Imagine the heat pressing in like heavy hands. Imagine the inside, cool and spare, unbelievably small. The little living room has a narrow blue couch and low brown tables secured to the floor. The dining area seats only four, and converts to a bed. The shotgun kitchen would be an embarrassment to a dorm room. The tiny bathroom has a shower stall, water clinging in beads to the walls, evidence of someone’s recent shower. And the square bedroom at the back may be the most comfortable of all the little spaces, with its full-sized bed and child-sized closet. It is temporary, this trailer, and insignificant.  
  
The bassist and the drummer have conveniently disappeared. Perhaps they, too, sense the connection between the hero and the god. Or perhaps they seek their own heroes and gods on the stage they so recently vacated, or among the crowd of adoring worshippers. The principle of one man’s trash is applicable to idols. What excites and satisfies one may leave another empty and hopeless. To each his own.  
  
This leaves our hero and our god alone in the little trailer. And how do we begin this fantasy? What is the aim? To show that two perfect creatures belong together and to each other? To satisfy some basic need? Maybe to reinforce the faith that unconditional and complete love is real and not entirely myth? Whatever the reason, they will do their duty.  
  
So begin with a kiss. Something so simple. A press of full, soft lips to warm, wet lips. The added affect of metal. A slip of tongues. And then sliding bodies and gripping fingers. Clothing removed, denim and vinyl and cotton and mesh in a messy pile on the floor. Bare, slick flesh. A vivid contrast, ink and skin and hair. The air of the room growing close and hot. Hips rocking, pressing. Long, needy moans. And finally, the press of warm skin, of beautiful erections and the lovely nude form.  
  
This is simple perfection, useless art. It needs only to be absorbed, not to be understood.  
  
In your mind, move them to the bed. Take the quiet golden one and lay him atop the vibrant silver one. They kiss. They touch. They shift to lie together on their sides and hold each other impossibly close. Erections seek hollows of hips. But there is more. So much more.  
  
The light is waning. The golden one shifts again, until his throat is open and the flat planes of his body are pressed to the flat planes of the silver one’s. Slow, wet sucking sounds fill the air. The aching perfection of this dirty number is beyond anything we hope to achieve for ourselves. Throaty moans and soft grunts complete they very human soundtrack. Think of the golden one moving his mouth away from the cock he consumes to toss his head back and give a drawn-out groan as he releases himself into the greedy mouth of the silver one. Imagine the silver one taking it all, still so painfully hard he whimpers. The golden one shimmies away, his long, lean body unimaginably graceful. See him push the silver one back. Watch the guitar hero hold the rock god’s hips down as he devours the pulsing shaft of that lovely organ. The silver one tightens his expression in utter pleasure. His moans and gasps of completion are musical—perfect.  
  
Together, they lay, holding each other loosely, offering kisses and gentle strokes of long fingers. Their sweaty skin glistens. Their bodies cool slowly. They need no words. Their devoted worship of one another makes the scene complete. Cheap speech would ruin the simple fantasy.  
  
They slay our emotions and keep selfishly for themselves their true secrets. And yet they sacrifice themselves on the altar of the stage and expose their most secret selves in ways obvious and furtive at once. For this, we are grateful. And we repay them with flattery sometimes beyond the wildest of imaginations.  


End file.
